Fun at Five
by misslike
Summary: Sherlock and John are watching TV when there's an unexpected problem - one of the presenters dies on air! Is it an accident or something more suspicious...?  My first fic, please be gentle!
1. Chapter 1

**Obviously I don't own the characters or their modern day interpretations. That honour goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. But I can play with them and make them dance to my tune for a while ;)**

-o0o-

_"Well children, we found Tuffy Bear and Baby Rosie, now all we have to do is find Jason!" The young, female presenter gurned for the cameras, looking around in a caricature of searching_

"What a complete load of tripe they're force feeding infants these days!" Sherlock scowled, pulling his jacket tighter. "Is it any wonder everyone in this entire country is so dull and stupid when they're treated like utter blind idiots from the moment they're born?"

John sighed and lowered his paper. "Sherlock, if you don't want to watch CBeebies I suggest you remember what you did with the remote for the telly. Or why not put the telly off and read a book or something?"

"I've read all the books in the flat, and it's bloody freezing outside." Sherlock replied, his eyes still firmly fixed on the television. Abruptly he leaned forward, staring intently at the screen, "Wait, that's not right..."

John rolled his eyes "What, are they suggesting that one plus one is two now?"

"No, John, watch..."

_On the screen, the woman was tiptoeing with massive, exaggerated steps towards a small Wendy house, from inside of which a man's shoes were clearly visible._

"_Can you see Jason anywhere? I think I can!" She pushed open the door and her face changed from simpering to shocked, "Jason? Are you okay?" Leaning down, she reached towards him, and touched his face. Suddenly she fell back and screamed "Oh my god! He's dead!" The screen hastily cut to a continuity trailer._

Sherlock leapt from his chair and started pacing, excited. "John, did you see that?"

John looked at Sherlock, aghast "Did I see it? Of course I saw it! Probably so did half the under fives in the country! The poor things will be scarred for life!"

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissively. "Death is a natural part of life, better they learn now than when Fluffy the hamster falls off its wheel." He stopped pacing and turned to the smaller man. "John, I need to borrow your phone."

Resignedly, John handed his phone over. "You know, one day I'm going to start charging you for use of my phone. You must cost me a fortune in text messages."

Sherlock spoke without looking up from texting, "Now now John, you know it's worth it for the excitement alone. I have to use your phone though, I don't think Lestrade's talking to me at the moment. Something to do with arranging secret meetings with psychopaths and nearly getting myself and my flatmate killed; usual nonsense."

"Can't imagine why he'd be upset over that one," John growled, "I mean, it's not like you completely overrode every piece of protocol they have, letting a career criminal get away in the process."

"John, don't be boring. We've been over this and nothing either of us say will change any of what happened. Now, are you coming to Scotland Yard?" The tall man smirked, "After all, Lestrade has invited you personally"

-o0o-

"I might have bloody guessed it was you and not Doctor Watson that texted me." Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade glared at Sherlock. "Especially considering I heard from you at about the same time as the BBC called us. Oh, and about seven hundred panicked mothers with their screaming toddlers rang 999. Keep it up and I'll think you've got MI5 on speed dial."

Sherlock smiled and raised an eyebrow at the harassed looking policeman. "Am I to assume you don't want my help with this case then?"

"Now I didn't say that, did I? But you'll have to be discreet." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, "I think the entire world is watching us on this one. A kid's TV presenter dies during a live broadcast, and his co-presenter has a nervous breakdown when she finds the body. Not exactly 'dog bites man' is it? Come on, I'll take you over to the studio. But for god's sake, Sherlock, let me do the talking, okay?"

The traffic around Television Centre was worse than they had anticipated. In the end they were forced to park a few streets away and walk the rest of the distance, carefully avoiding the accumulation of reporters, cameramen and rubbernecking crowds. Pushing his way to the front of the crowd, DI Lestrade showed his warrant card and gestured for Sherlock and John to precede him into the building.

"Are you from the police?" A worried looking woman in a smart business suit addressed them. "I'm Cathy, the producer. There's a doctor with Jason at the moment. With his body, I mean." Her eyes glistened slightly with unshed tears. "I can't believe this has happened...Fun at Five has only been on the air a few weeks"

"And what has that to do with anything?" Sherlock stepped forward. "Would this somehow be less tragic if your show had been a long runner?"

"Well no, of course not! That's not what I...how can you say that?" She glared at Sherlock, and Lestrade gave him a warning look. "It just seems so unreal!" her voice caught on the final words of her sentence, and she brought a crumpled tissue to her face, wiping her eyes and nose. "Come with me, I'll take you to the studio."

In the studio, the paramedics were packing away their resuscitation equipment. The doctor who had come with them nodded to Lestrade. "Detective Inspector. I expect you want to know time of death and all that?" Lestrade nodded. "Looks to have been dead less than ten minutes when the body was found. Seems to be fairly consistent with drugs overdose. Not sure which ones but I'll get a full blood screen done obviously." He noticed Sherlock and John crouching by the body "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"

John smiled awkwardly. "We're with the DI..."

His explanation was cut short as Sherlock turned towards them with a gleam in his eye. "This man was murdered!"

-o0o-

**A/N: This is my very first attempt at fanfic, so all advice/constructive criticism is appreciated. I do have a plan for how the story goes, we shall see if I can stick to it :)**


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm sorry, who did you say you are?" The emergency doctor frowned at Sherlock, concerned.

"I didn't. Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague Doctor John Watson."

John smiled and stood to shake the emergency doctor's hand. "Like I said, we're with DI Lestrade. Sherlock's a...specialist."

"Well, specialist or not, don't you think you're being a bit hasty?" The doctor was still frowning. "We've not even confirmed cause of death yet! I mean, people die of drug overdoses every day, and there's nothing obvious to indicate any foul play. We'll have to wait for a full post mortem, but it looks pretty straightforward to me."

Sherlock had turned back to the body and picked up his left arm. "That's because you're not looking properly. The _left_ arm! Why do they always miss that?"

The emergency doctor looked offended. "I'm sorry, what do you mean? We didn't miss anything! There's an obvious track mark on the left arm where the drugs were injected. We've not found the needle, but that's not really our job."

Lestrade brought his hands up, soothing. "Please doctor, take no notice of him. I'm sure he wasn't slighting you or your team." He gave John a look that said _control him_, took the emergency doctor's arm, and began walking him towards the exit. "I've just got a few bits of paperwork for you to sort out for me."

As they walked away, John crouched down next to Sherlock and spoke in a low voice "Want to tell me what that was about? I think you nearly got us kicked out."

Sherlock looked mildly exasperated, "Even you can't see it? The mark is on his _left_ arm."

"Yes, you mentioned that. And?"

"It's the banker all over again! He was _left-handed, _John. You didn't notice when we were watching television?" Sherlock looked at John who shrugged, blankly. "Well then, look at his shoelaces. It's obvious. And no left-handed person would inject themselves in the left arm. They'd be as likely to have an accident with the syringe as they would be to get any of the drugs into their system. "

"Well, maybe he got someone else to inject him."

"Oh come now John, you don't really believe that do you?" the detective looked at him askance, "With the paparazzi culture we have, someone whose career depended entirely on their spotless image would never put themselves in such a vulnerable position. And I think it highly unlikely he would choose to be so incredibly dim witted in the middle of a live program. He's clearly not a desperate junkie; for a start he's much too healthy. No malnutrition, no scarring, no jaundice. No, it's definitely murder."

Sherlock stood and began examining the area around the body, looking like a huge black crow in the brightly coloured studio. John followed, leaning in to whisper, "So...do you think it's got anything to do with...well..._him?_"

Sherlock stopped sifting through cushions and looked thoughtful for a moment, then resumed his search. "Could be, but it's hard to say. It's certainly attracted enough attention to satisfy his desire for an audience. On the other hand, maybe the victim just had enemies."

"Enemies?" John scoffed, "He worked in kid's TV for god's sake! How many enemies d'you think he had?"

Sherlock had worked his way around most of the set and stopped suddenly, holding a large pink stuffed rabbit in one gloved hand. In the place where it had been lying was a small syringe. "I'd say at least one."

A commotion at the door of the room interrupted their discussion. A young blonde woman broke free from the producer's grasp and ran to the body, falling to her knees beside it. "Jason! Oh god no...no!" Her face red and swollen from crying, she picked up the arm of the dead man and clasped it to her chest, keening. John looked away. It wasn't the first time he'd seen a young person die - he'd been an army doctor after all - but he wasn't used to seeing such overwhelming sorrow first hand.

His throat tightening with sympathetic grief, John turned to watch Sherlock. After a cursory glance at the sobbing woman, the detective had continued rummaging through the detritus of the crime scene. To John, it seemed like he had simply written the young woman and her grief off as irrelevant, unhelpful to his investigation, much the same as he had declared caring about Moriarty's victims to be a mistake. As John watched, Sherlock bent down and began rifling through the dead man's pockets.

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him to his feet. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Well, I _was_ checking to make sure I hadn't missed anything obvious amongst our victim's personal effects." Sherlock replied.

"Do you have to do that right now? I mean, it can't wait ten minutes until his _grieving widow_ has had a chance to say goodbye?" John whispered, angrily.

"She's not his widow; girlfriend I'd say. Too young to be his mother; too overwrought to be a sibling. No ring, so not married or engaged, but clearly very attached to him from the frankly astonishing amounts of mucus involved..."

"For god's sake, Sherlock!" John interrupted him, "You're missing my point! It doesn't matter whether she's his girlfriend, his wife or Widow Twanky, she needs time to grieve! She doesn't need her last memory of him being you rummaging around in his clothes! Show some respect for the dead!"

Sherlock stood still, giving John a cold look. "I wasn't aware that proving this man had been murdered, finding his killer, and bringing them to justice was disrespectful. Thank you for educating me on that point, John. Clearly I should prostrate myself in a show of faux sympathy with a grief I do not feel. I'm sure that it would not be a waste of valuable time while our murderer is still at large."

John swallowed. Nodded. "Fine, you've made your point. I still think your timing could use some work, but I'm sorry for saying you were disrespectful." He sighed and said roughly, "Sherlock, is there anything else we need to do here?"

"Not right now." Moving to the exit, Sherlock stopped briefly to speak to DI Lestrade, finishing with, "I need a list of everyone who was working in this studio. And a copy of the post mortem report. Text me if there are any developments. Come on, John."

John caught up to Sherlock outside. Shoving his hands into his pocket, he took a deep breath of cold air. He stopped, something having suddenly occurred to him. "I just realised. You knew there was something wrong. Right before that girl found the body, you said 'Wait, that's wrong.' What did you see?"

Sherlock smiled, grimly. "His feet. They weren't angled correctly. If you were waiting in anticipation of being 'found' as part of some inane children's entertainment show, you wouldn't be sprawled flat on your back on the floor. It was obvious the man was at least unconscious if not worse. Now, come on John."

-o0o-

Several hours later, they met DI Lestrade in his office at Scotland Yard. The room was dominated by a large desk, currently covered in papers. Lestrade sat behind it, while John sat on the small sofa in the corner, determined to remain unobtrusive. Sherlock wandered around the room, poking things and reading whatever documents the DI had left lying around.

Lestrade cleared his throat to get the lanky detective's attention. "I got the information you wanted, Sherlock, but I'm not sure how useful it will be. There were no guests on set, and everyone who was working on the show has a pretty solid alibi. I mean, they were either on camera or in sight of someone the entire time. A show like that doesn't exactly have a massive crew, you know?" He sifted through the large stack of files on his desk and handed Sherlock a slim manila folder. "This is the list of cast and crew, and a copy of the sign in sheet. There's no extra names there, and everyone who'd signed in to the studio was still present when we got there. As far as I can see, there's no one unaccounted for."

Sherlock flicked through the folder he had been given. "Then you're missing something. Someone in that studio administered those drugs. Do we have a toxicological report yet?"

Lestrade handed him another piece of paper. "It was what they call a speedball. Mixture of cocaine and heroin, supposed to give a bigger high." He sat back in his chair and sighed. "It's also one of the more dangerously stupid things a person can inject into themselves. Cocaine's a stimulant, but the coke high wears off before the heroin does, and heroin's a depressant, so when they start to come down, they stop breathing." He shook his head. "Not a nice way to die."

"From what I gather, Detective Inspector, _niceness_ is rarely seen as relevant when one is committing murder."

"All right Sherlock, keep your hair on. Anyway, if there's nothing else you need from me right now I have to confer with Anderson and his team." Lestrade pulled his jacket on and walked to the door. "Feel free to use my office. I know you will anyway. Just don't antagonise my staff any more than you have to, okay?"

With that, he left the room, allowing the door to swing closed behind him.

-o0o-

John yawned and looked out of the Detective Inspector's floor-to-ceiling windows. It had been dusk when they arrived but now the sky was black, the stars made invisible by the ever present glow from the city lights. Checking his watch he looked around. Sherlock paced the room, muttering to himself, as he had done for the last few hours.

John waved the papers in his hand at Sherlock, "According to this, Jason Verne was some kind of a health nut. He went to the gym four or five times a week, he was vegetarian, only drank bottled water. He was also an anti-drugs spokesperson after one of his best friends in school died of a drug overdose when they were sixteen." John looked up, "It's like whoever killed him wanted to make him look as bad as possible. I'm surprised he wasn't found face down in a pile of bacon sandwiches."

Sherlock stopped pacing and grabbed John's shoulder. "Say that again."

"What, bacon sandwiches?"

Sherlock frowned, his train of thought derailed. "Is now really the time for humour, John?"

"Sorry. Bit hypocritical of me anyway. It's just, we've been looking through this stuff for hours, and we're no closer to any answers." John yawned again. "I know you can manage without sleep, but I'm only human. After the last time I promised Sarah I'd never sleep through a clinic again, and I am meant to be covering at the surgery tomorrow morning."

"Oh, fine." Sherlock pouted. "We can go. Bring the folder with you. And you're making the tea."

-o0o-

**A/N - I owe a debt of thanks to a good friend of mine in RL who helped me get out of the corner I wrote myself into and gave me some pointers on pacing through this chapter. Unfortunately for him he doesn't read so he won't know I've thanked him :D As before, all advice/comments welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3

The door closed behind the last patient of the morning clinic. John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, and reflected on the conversation he had had that morning with his flatmate. It had kept him slightly distracted ever since he arrived at the surgery for work.

-o0o-

_John ran a hand through his hair, checked his shirt was buttoned and tucked in properly, and huffed into his hand to try and check for morning breath. Satisfied that he was as presentable as he was likely to be, he turned away from the mirror. He caught sight of Sherlock, sitting legs crossed in his chair, elbows on knees, with his fingers steepled in front of his face. He had barely moved from that position since they arrived back from Scotland Yard the previous night. _

"_Sherlock, I'm in clinic this morning but I'll be back after lunch." He paused, waiting for acknowledgement, "Can I have a quick word before I go?" Still receiving no response, he tried again. "Sherlock? Hello, Earth to Sherlock?"_

"_I did hear you the first time, John." Sherlock replied without even turning his head. "I was waiting to hear what else you had to say. I assume it does have something to do with my current case, yes?"_

_John blinked, hardly surprised any more that his intentions were so blatantly obvious to the self styled "Master of Deduction", and nodded. "Right. Well." Deciding it would be best to get any potential tantrums out of the way, John blurted out, "I want you to promise you won't go and see the girlfriend without me."_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing._

"_I know you must be impatient to get this case solved, but even you acknowledge you're not good with people. I just think that maybe I should go with you, that's all. To make sure you don't upset her too much. I mean, you remember what Lestrade said about the world watching? If you offend her she might make a fuss. And a fuss would bring people's attention to you, and then they might ask questions about why an independent investigator is working on such a high profile case. And they might realise you're the same Sherlock Holmes that almost got blown up last month, and then where would you be?" John stopped and cleared his throat as he realised that he was ranting and pacing back and forth._

_Sherlock uncrossed his legs and stood up from his chair. "Finished? Good. John, are you aware that most murders are committed by people their victims trust, implicitly? Family members, best friends, spouses. You're more likely to be killed by the person you have sworn to be with 'til death do you part' than anyone else. I'm not assuming this woman was involved, but statistically speaking she is the most likely suspect."_

_John gaped at Sherlock. "You're not serious? Sherlock, she practically collapsed yesterday!"_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Which could easily be overacting."_

_John frowned. "__**Or**__ it could be she was honestly struck with terrible grief! It does happen. No, that's it. You definitely can't go and talk to her without me. __**If**__ – and I'm only acknowledging it as an if – if she is guilty, then you badgering her is only going to make her clam up tighter. If not, you'd be putting an innocent, grieving woman through unnecessary pain." John crossed his arms, attempting with all his might to broadcast an air of belligerent finality._

"_All of which is why I had no intention of speaking to her today. And besides," Sherlock turned and sat down again, "I have other things to do this morning."_

_John uncrossed his arms, surprised by his easy victory. "Okay then." _

_Turning, the doctor shrugged on his coat, when his brain finally caught up to the second part of Sherlock's reply. "Wait, what do you mean you have other things to do? What other things?"_

_Sherlock looked up at him and smiled a small smile, then stood and started ushering the smaller man towards the door. "John, I do hate to be a nag, but didn't you say your clinic starts at nine? It's just gone twenty to. You'll be late if you don't get going."_

_John's eyes widened in surprise as he found himself standing outside the flat, with the door closed abruptly in his face. He looked down at his watch, registering that once again Sherlock was right. "Oh bugger!" Turning, he ran down the stairs, his enigmatic flatmate temporarily forgotten._

_-o0o-_

Of course, he'd not been in work for more than half an hour before he found he was worrying about Sherlock's mysterious 'other things'. What if he'd already solved the CBeebies case and was going to go and do his denouement without John? What if he'd had another case appear in the night, of which John was unaware? What if, god forbid, he'd had a lead on Moriarty, and was planning another stupid stunt like the pool meeting? John found it almost impossible to concentrate properly on the patients that passed through his consulting room, and more than once had to ask them to repeat themselves. At last the clinic was over so he could go and check on his infuriating best friend and make sure he wasn't out there trying to get himself killed.

A knock at the consulting room door brought John back to the present. "Come in"

The door opened and Sarah came in, hesitantly. "John! I haven't seen you in weeks. I'm glad you were able to come in today." She stood in front of him, slightly awkward, as if she were unsure how to act around him. "So how are you and Sherlock?"

John winced slightly at her tone. He had been dreading this conversation. "Fine. We're fine. Everything's...fine." She stood still, rubbing her hands together slightly, unconvinced. John sighed, and leaned back against the desk, hunching his shoulders inward as if to protect himself from imaginary blows. "Look, Sarah, it's not what you think..."

Sarah smiled tightly, the corners of her mouth beginning to turn down. "Well, I wasn't quite sure what to think John. You were found in what was left of that leisure centre, half naked and wrapped around each other."

John sighed again and closed his eyes tightly. "Our clothes were wet through and it was freezing. I didn't know how long we might be trapped under the rubble and I was worried about hypothermia." He looked up at her, beseeching. "We were just trying to stay warm, you know, body heat and all that?"

Sarah made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "Body heat is right. I did wonder about you two when he came along on our date." She shook her head, eyes gleaming wetly. "If you'd just been honest with me, no one would have got hurt." Sarah turned and hurried from the room, and John listened to her footsteps click quickly down the hallway.

Feeling emotionally drained and extremely put-upon, he left the surgery and hailed a cab to take him home.

-o0o-

Trudging up the stairs back at Baker Street, John braced himself for whatever he might find inside the flat. Unexpectedly, what he actually found was Sherlock sitting calmly, staring at his laptop, while overly cheerful music blared from the speakers.

Nonplussed, John walked over and stood behind Sherlock so he could see the screen. "Sherlock, what _are_ you watching?"

Without taking his eyes from the screen, Sherlock held up a DVD case. "It's the last episode of Jason Verne's previous series. I've been watching them back to back since you left."

John felt himself smiling. "You've been watching a kids TV program all morning? This was your 'other things'?" Shaking his head, he felt himself relaxing for the first time all day. He saw Sherlock smile slightly.

"Of course. Why, what did you think I was doing? Chasing Moriarty over the rooftops and through the sewers?" Sherlock looked up and clucked reprovingly. "Really John, I thought you knew me better than that by now."

John stared at the detective, his mouth hanging ever so slightly open, incapable of expressing the depths of his frustration with mere words. Unable to think of a suitable response, John fell back to a safer topic. "Tea?"

-o0o-

**So very sorry for the wait! I had a mental block over how to move on to the next part of this story, which has finally cleared. I know there's little to no progress of the mystery plot, but don't worry, all will eventually be explained. I think there's probably only one or two chapters more of this story to go, although don't quote me on that!**

**All advice/criticism will be gratefully received :)**


	4. Chapter 4

After a thorough search, John had determined that the flat was completely devoid of both edible food and teabags, and that the less said about the _actual_ contents of the fridge, the better. "We've run out of tea," he shouted, "and I think one of your experiments might have exploded a little bit."

He heard the sound of a laptop closing, and Sherlock appeared in the doorway, already buttoning his coat. "Well come on then John. You should definitely have something to eat. I know just the place."

-o0o-

Twenty minutes later they were sat in a tiny little cafe, one of the hundreds of places Sherlock seemed to frequent that John had been entirely unaware existed. At that moment, the taller man's attention was fixed on a young woman with two small boys. He seemed fascinated by their interaction, especially between the children.

A smiling, bespectacled, middle aged woman, whose name tag proclaimed she was called Val, brought over their tea and John's food. "You know, you really should eat, Sherlock," John said. "You say it slows down your brain, but I'm pretty sure they've done studies that show if you _don't_ eat your mental activity actually decreases."

Val grinned at John and said, "It is nice to see Sherlock's finally found someone to look after him." She gently patted the detective's shoulder. "You should listen to your man, love; he's only got your best interests at heart."

John stared at the woman, slightly open-mouthed. "I'm sorry?"

She smiled again. "He always used to come in on his own. The poor lamb looked so lonely, and he hardly ever eats anything. It's no wonder he's all bones and angles. You'll have to get him fed up!"

"Wait. You know Sherlock? He comes here often?" John glanced at his flatmate, who seemed to be wholly ignoring their conversation.

"Of course I do, sweetheart. He saved me!" Val laughed.

A familiar feeling began to creep over John, and he silently indicated she should continue.

Pleased to be able to share her story, Val pulled an empty chair out from the table and sat down. "Well. A couple of years ago, I fell for a man called Howard Angel. I was over the moon with him, thought he could walk on water, that he was the best thing since sliced bread, all that romantic stuff. I met him on a cruise and we had a whirlwind romance. He told me he lived down in Portsmouth, so we didn't get to see each other that often, but we'd talk on the phone all the time, and he'd write me these gorgeous romantic letters. I thought I'd found the last of the true gentlemen."

She paused to make sure John was following and, he was sure, to catch her breath. "Well. He came up to visit me one weekend and surprised me in the cafe. Sherlock happened to be in at the time, and right as Howard got down on one knee, he marched up to the counter and said 'Don't do it Valerie, it would be the biggest mistake of your life.' Of course, at first I thought he was a nutter. A complete stranger, interrupting me getting proposed to! But then, he started to pick holes in Howard's story. It was amazing! He pointed out that even though Howard's clothes were a bit cheap, he was wearing very expensive shoes; that he had on glasses with fake lenses, and a few other things like that. It made me look at him a bit more differently. And then, he turned to me and told me I needed to get my eyes checked because it was pretty obvious that Howard wasn't nearly as old as he said he was. He had on makeup and a bit of flour or something in his hair to make it look greyer! I couldn't believe it!"

Val stared earnestly at John, as if willing him to feel her indignation. "Of course, then it came out that he was a serial bigamist called James Williamson. He'd made a living out of marrying women who were a little on the older side, and then spending their money to furnish a lavish lifestyle. Once they ran out of funds, rather than divorce them he'd just vanish and change his name, and find another helpless woman to live off. I'd have fallen for it hook, line and sinker if it weren't for Sherlock. He saved me, he saw through Howard Angel on the spot. _And_ he got that nasty, ferrety little man put away. Serve him right too!" Val nodded her head, eyes twinkling in triumph.

John gaped at the woman. She continued, "So anyway yes, it's nice to see he's finally found someone who really cares about him. And so handsome too!" She winked at John.

"What?" He blinked. "Oh, no, no, we're not a couple." John laughed awkwardly. "I'm Sherlock's flatmate."

Val stood and batted him gently. "Don't worry love, you don't need to put on a front for us. No one round here minds. Besides, if anyone tried to do anything to Sherlock they'd have half of London onto them for it." She bustled away as another customer entered the small cafe.

Staring at her retreating back, John felt slightly shell-shocked. He wasn't sure how, or when it had begun, but he and Sherlock had clearly begun projecting an image of coupledom. Feeling slightly aggravated, John began eating.

Less than a minute later, he felt something brush over his head. War-sharpened instincts that he'd forgotten he had made John flinch downward quickly and begin scanning the room for danger. When a cursory sweep revealed nothing immediately dangerous, he looked down. A small paper plane had fallen beneath his seat.

John reached down and picked it up, catching sight of the small family Sherlock was continuing to stare at. The woman had gone to the till leaving the boys alone at the table. The smaller boy had a definite guilty look on his face, but the bigger boy had stood up and was walking anxiously towards him.

"Um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you." The boy appeared to be about nine, with thick brown hair and a very determined expression "I was just showing Callum how to throw a paper plane and it went in the wrong direction."

Sherlock spoke for the first time since they'd sat down at their table. "Why are you lying?"

The boy glanced at him quickly, his face reddening slightly. "I'm not lying, it was an accident!"

"That isn't what I mean, and you know it." Sherlock stared at him, unsmiling. "Why are you lying?"

The boy's face was dark red now and tears shone in his eyes as he glowered angrily at Sherlock. "It was an accident and I've said I'm sorry!" he shouted.

"Matthew?" The young woman came rushing over. "What's wrong darling?" She took in the scene and decided Sherlock was clearly at fault. Looking fiercely at him, she said, "What did you do to my son? Why is he crying?"

Through his tears, the boy tried to explain what had happened, but he was interrupted by Sherlock. "Your son threw a paper plane at my colleague and then Matthew lied about it. I watched him. I merely wanted to know why he was lying."

Offended, the woman gasped and glared down at Sherlock. "My son is not a liar! How dare you!" She grabbed both boys by the hand and stormed out of the door.

John stared at Sherlock. For the second time in half an hour, he wasn't sure quite what to say to the man who had so rapidly become the focus of his life. Eventually he settled on "Care to explain what that was about?"

Sherlock's head had sunk to the table, and he appeared to be sulking. Moodily, he looked up at John. "The boy was lying. He didn't throw the plane. His little brother did." Sherlock frowned and dropped his eyes back to the table. "I wanted to know why he was so willing to take the blame for something his brother had done, when he could quite easily have let him face up to his own consequences."

"But Sherlock, that's what big brothers do." John tried to smile. "They protect."

Sherlock stared up at him. "Yes, but _why_? In the long run it doesn't do them any good! The younger ones grow up assuming there will always be someone that they can rely on to clear up after them, and the older ones end up feeling put upon or taken advantage of. It can't be biologically beneficial."

"Wait. This is about you and Mycroft, isn't it?" John sighed. "I don't think you can make generalisations for the entire human race from just your own family, Sherlock."

Sherlock tutted and sat up. "Oh please. I merely wished to understand what would compel someone to take the blame for something they didn't do, especially when they were clearly observed not to do it."

Deciding it was not worth the argument, John decided to let the subject drop but smiled slightly to himself, and said under his breath, "Now who's lying?"

-o0o-

"Where are we?" John stared up at the block of flats in front of him. It seemed out of place among the Victorian terraces surrounding it. The large, square windows and concrete balconies marked it out as a much more modern development.

"We are going to visit Vicki Braithwaite." Sherlock glanced at his watch. "She should be home by now. Come on." He strode off without checking to make sure John was following.

"Vicki Braithwaite...that's the kids TV presenter, isn't it? The one who found the body, I mean." John jogged slightly to catch up with the lanky detective.

Sherlock nodded. "She was in hospital overnight as a precaution, something to do with emotional distress, and for whatever reason they wouldn't let me talk to her. I've read her initial statement of course, but I need to talk to her myself, as soon as possible. It's imperative that I get to her before she has a chance to forget anything else. I had word they discharged her a couple of hours ago."

At the entrance of the tall building John looked for a buzzer. Sherlock ignored him and walked to the doors, where John caught a glimpse of him removing something from his coat and then leaning down to look at the handle. Abruptly he stood and pulled the door open.

John hurried over to him and in a whisper said, "Sherlock, did you do something to the door?"

"Nothing permanent. It will save us some time." Sherlock began to take the stairs two at a time. John waited, frowning at him with arms crossed. "John, Miss Braithwaite lives on the twelfth floor. We simply do not have time to bicker over irrelevancies."

"One, it's not irrelevant, it's breaking and entering. And two, we could just take the lift." He pointed to an alcove opposite the stairs, where two lifts were clearly visible.

Sherlock huffed. "I'd really rather not, John."

"Yes, well I'd really rather not climb twelve sets of stairs." He indicated his leg, which still occasionally gave him trouble, psychosomatic or not. "Plus, even you'll be too tired for talking after climbing all that way."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't care for lifts. Especially ridiculously small lifts that smell like an unwashed toilet. I'll take the stairs, you can meet me at the top."

"No." John shook his head, emphatically. "We're not doing the splitting up thing again. Not after last time. Hello, strapped to a bomb in a darkened swimming pool? Ring any bells?"

"A valid point I suppose." Sherlock tugged his coat closer and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Fine, we can use the lift if you insist. But I don't have to enjoy it."

John grinned. "No one's asking you to enjoy it! I can't believe you're scared of going in the lift!"

Sherlock's frown deepened. "I'm not scared." He sniffed. "I merely have some occasional residual claustrophobia since the swimming pool incident."

John pressed the elevator call button and gave Sherlock a disbelieving look. Jokingly, he said, "Well, would it help if I said I'd hold your hand?"

Sherlock blinked at him, and then gave him an enigmatic, slightly embarrassed, look. "Yes. I think it would."

-o0o-

The lift was slightly smaller than John had thought; Sherlock's hand warm and dry in his own. They stood facing the doors, not looking at each other. John wasn't sure he would be able to make eye contact through the awkwardness he was feeling, and frankly he was finding it hard to concentrate on why they were in this situation in the first place. It was, well, _weird_. As familiar as he was with Sherlock's unique personality, he hadn't anticipated him needing this kind of _physical_ reassurance. Looking up, he caught sight of his friend. Sherlock stood, eyes closed, the tightness around his mouth the only other indication he was discomforted. John gave his hand a gentle squeeze to reassure him, and was slightly surprised when Sherlock squeezed back. He was suddenly reminded of the night, weeks ago, that Sherlock now referred to as 'the swimming pool incident'.

"_Sherlock, can you hear me?" John gently shook his friend who lay limply on the tiled floor in front of him. His curls were plastered to his forehead with water, and there was a shallow cut over his left cheekbone that had begun to ooze blood. His eyes fluttered weakly open, and he looked up at John, unfocused._

"_John...?" Sherlock tried to speak but began to cough hard, the water that had entered his body needing to find a way out. He leaned away from John, coughing and retching, and then flopped back onto the hard floor. "Ugh. What happened after I shot the bomb? And why am I half drowned?"_

_John smiled, relieved, and sat back on his heels. "I pushed us into the pool. And you never told me that you can't swim, so if I hadn't noticed you didn't come up, you'd have _all_ drowned."_

"_I have never needed to swim before. It was irrelevant information." Sherlock coughed again, and sat upright, staring around the almost pitch darkness of the room. "Are we still at the pool?"_

_John nodded in confirmation and began to look over his friend's injuries. "The ceiling collapsed I think. I've not checked whether there's a way out yet. Sit still, Sherlock, I need to check if you have a concussion."_

_Sherlock batted his hands away and stood up. "I'm fine, John. Is there any sign of Moriarty?" In the half light, he tried the only visible door. "Locked."_

_John sighed. "He must have had another way out. I saw him as I was dragging you out of the water. The bastard waved at me."_

_Sherlock whirled around. "And you didn't go after him?"_

"_I was a little bit busy at the time. You know, saving you from drowning?" John stared at his friend._

_Sherlock paced the room like a caged animal, trying to find another exit. "We're trapped, and he's out there, doing who knows what. Stupid! I'm so _stupid_!"_

_John grabbed Sherlock as he passed, and dragged the taller man down to sit on the floor. "Sherlock, you're wasting energy." He held up a hand for silence as the detective tried to interrupt." You're right, we're trapped. And we don't know how long we're going to be trapped for. Our clothes are wet through and in case you haven't noticed, it's bloody freezing in here. We need to stay warm and conserve energy, or we could develop hypothermia. If you want to be useful, you could start by finding some dry clothes, or a blanket."_

_They found a couple of shock blankets in a small first aid box, but there was no sign of any dry clothing. John pulled off his shirt and began removing his trousers, indicating Sherlock should do the same. "We have to stay warm and get out of these wet clothes. Wrap yourself in this." He threw him the silver blanket. "It might not look like much but it could save your life."_

_In underwear and reflective blankets, they huddled together, shivering in the darkness. Sherlock began to laugh, which quickly turned into a cough. Concerned, John looked at him, searching for the telltale signs of early hypothermia. Seeing his friend was mostly recovered, he reached out and grasped Sherlock by the hand, squeezing it for reassurance. Sherlock squeezed back, then said "I was thinking about what you said earlier, about me ripping your clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. Imagine what people would say if they saw us now!"_

The sound of the lift doors opening brought John back to the present day. Stepping forward, he was surprised when Sherlock pulled him back. "This is only the fourth floor, John. We'd still have quite a walk."

A large woman shuffled into the enclosed space, forcing Sherlock and John even closer together. John felt Sherlock's grip on his hand tighten, and heard the detective's breathing speed up. He looked up, only to see that Sherlock was staring down at him, an unreadable but almost impossibly unhappy expression on his face. He felt his breath catch in his throat, and instinctively moved closer to the taller man, until they were almost pressed together. He could feel the warmth emanating from Sherlock's chest and see the tension in the line of his shoulders. John laid his hand on Sherlock's chest, trying to comfort and reassure him. He felt Sherlock lean closer, his tousle-haired head dropping to rest on John's shoulder. "It's okay, we're almost there now."

John looked up at the floor indicator, to reassure himself the lift was still moving, and caught the eye of the female passenger, who was staring at them with open hostility. Surprised, John stared back.

The lift binged to tell them they had reached the tenth floor, and the large woman started to leave. She turned to John, and said, "I've got no problem with you people, but you should keep that kind of thing private. Little kids might see you!" Satisfied she had made her point, she stomped off, the doors closing behind her.

John glared at the lift doors, then looked down at Sherlock. The tall man was staring up at him with one piercing blue-green eye. "What's wrong?"

John pushed Sherlock gently to move him away slightly. "She thought we were gay. In fact, she's the third person today to assume we're a couple."

"Third? Assuming Valerie was the second, who was the first?" Sherlock gave him a look of honest inquiry.

"Sarah!" John growled, suddenly annoyed with Sherlock's blasé attitude. "And I'm getting sick of it!"

The lift doors opened again, this time on their floor, and Sherlock brushed past him to leave. "Coming?"

Frustrated, John followed him and grabbed Sherlock by the arm in an attempt to resume their conversation. "Look, how can it not bother you that people assume we're, you know, _involved_?"

Sherlock stopped, and pushed his hands into his pockets. "Why does it bother you so much, John? It's not true."

"But people assume it is!" John threw his hands into the air.

"Yes, I can see that that might be a disadvantage." He gave John a sharp look. "Why does Sarah assume we're a couple?"

"The swimming pool incident." John replied flatly.

"And did you explain to her the truth?"

John sighed. "Of course I did. She didn't believe me."

Sherlock looked mildly confused. "Then she doesn't trust you, but you still want to be associated with her?"

"It's not...I mean, she's...Oh, forget it!" John glared at him.

Sherlock smirked. "Is it truly so terrible to be associated with me? I've been told I could be quite a catch. "

John stared at him, and spluttered, "Have you gone stark raving mad? We're not a couple!"

"I know that. And anyone who truly cared for you would trust you to tell them the truth about our non-relationship." Sherlock turned and began looking at apartment numbers. "Now, help me find number 1213."

"And that's it, is it?" John said, quietly.

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "What else would you have me say John? I am sorry if your relationship with Sarah has suffered a breakdown because of our association. But the fact remains; she is the one at fault here, not me or you." Hereached out and put a hand on John's shoulder. "I am no expert in the relationship department, but I believe the accepted advice here is to move on."

John nodded, and sighed. "You're right." He allowed the tension to leave his body, and looked up at his best friend. He grinned. "You're right about something else too." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "You're rubbish at relationships."

-o0o-

**A/N - So yeah, this one took me a while! I'm experimenting and exploring a bit with their relationship, so I hope no one minds the lack of progress with the central mystery. I promise we shall definitely have a little resolution there soon. I'd very much like to say thank you to verityburns who has motivated and inspired me to get my backside in gear and get writing**.

**Having just done a quick re-read of this chapter I think maybe it's gotten a bit angstified, so I hope no one minds that either! Poor John, I do like to torment him so...**


	5. Chapter 5

As Sherlock knocked on the apartment door, John watched him, noticing the barely perceptible change in expression and demeanour that signified he was putting on an act of some sort. He almost looked like a different person - friendly, open and approachable instead of aloof and detached. The door opened a sliver, held back by a chain, and a woman's voice came weakly from behind it. "Hello?"

Sherlock smiled widely, and in an encouraging tone of voice said, "Vicki Braithwaite? I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague Doctor Watson. I wondered if we could come in for a little chat?"

There was silence from the other side of the door, but quickly it closed and then opened again, the chain removed. A short, dark haired young woman stood in front of them, her face slightly puffy and eyes red rimmed. John recognised her as the presenter he had seen briefly while at the television studio. She indicated they should come in, and closed the door gently behind them, being careful to relock it.

"I recognise you from the studio. You work for the police?"

If John hadn't known Sherlock as well as he did, he would almost certainly have missed the slight flicker in his expression as he corrected Vicki "I work _with_ the police, yes. I'm a specialist."

The woman nodded, not seeming to notice the slight reproof in his tone. They moved through the small flat to the living room, and she indicated they should sit down. She perched on a small sofa, taking a sip from the cup of tea she had placed next to her. John sat, but Sherlock remained standing, clearly more comfortable when he was commanding the room.

"I already told the police everything I remember." Vicki said, quietly.

Sherlock smiled even more broadly. "And indeed, I have read your statement. However, I'm here to ask you about the things you _don't_ remember."

The young woman blinked, and looked up from the cup of tea she was cradling in her hands. "I'm sorry? The things I _don't _remember? I...I don't think I understand."

"It's quite simple. I will ask questions, and you will answer them. The important difference being that I will be the one responsible for determining the relevance of the information."

John noticed that now they were safely inside Vicki's flat, Sherlock appeared to have almost entirely dropped his chummy persona, and he was once again his calculating self. He remembered the feel of Sherlock's hands on either side of his head, the taller man staring intently into his eyes as if he could read John's mind if only he looked hard enough. Remembered what Sherlock had said to him about _'maximising his memory'. _He wondered if Sherlock would try something similar with Vicki, and was mildly relieved when the detective instead began with simple questioning.

Sherlock pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and handed it to John along with a pen. "Doctor Watson, would you be so kind as to take notes? One never knows what might be important."

John looked up at Sherlock in frank disbelief, having never known him to forget anything that could be relevant to a case, and was only slightly surprised to catch his subtle wink. Clearly Sherlock didn't want to have to explain anything more than he had to.

"To begin with I will ask foundation questions, to make sure we are on the same page, as it were." Sherlock asked basic questions; how long had she known the deceased, how had they met, had they socialised outside of work? As he talked he paced, one hand in his pocket. John wrote down anything Vicki said, wishing he knew shorthand, or at least had access to a Dictaphone.

"Now, think about what happened yesterday. Close your eyes, picture it in your mind. Build up a complete image of the studio, the set, even the clothes you were wearing. Think about finding Jason's body. You walked to the tent, you lifted the flap. What was the first thing, the very first thing, which you saw?" Sherlock had stopped pacing, and was watching the young woman, unblinkingly.

After a few seconds Vicki whispered, "I - I suppose it was his mask." She looked guiltily downwards.

John stared at Sherlock, and mouthed _"Mask?"_ Sherlock silently shook his head, and indicated she should continue.

"I feel awful, but the first thing I thought was that he was messing with me and I was really angry. He's always been a bit of a show off, and he likes to upstage his co-stars a bit. You know, be the centre of attention. He used to play little pranks – nothing dangerous obviously – but he liked it if we were a little bit off balance because it meant he could sort of take over." She blinked back tears, and swallowed. "Anyway. He was wearing his mask from the next sketch. It gave me a bit of a start and I was about ready to smack him, but then I saw he had sort of sick coming out of his mouth, and when I touched his face he was all clammy. I think I knew he was dead."

She began weeping quietly, and covered her face with her hands. John looked at Sherlock, and tried to indicate with hand gestures and nods of his head that he should comfort her somehow. Getting nowhere fast, he rolled his eyes and leaned over to pat the crying woman gently on the shoulder.

"I just feel so guilty, that the last thing I thought of him was that he was being a wanker, you know? It makes me feel like a really bad person, because he was probably already dead and I thought he was just mucking around."

Sherlock spoke again, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "You didn't mention the mask in your police statement. Why is that?"

Vicki sobbed and looked pleadingly at John. "I forgot, honestly. It completely skipped my mind. When I saw him again it wasn't there, I think one of the paramedics took it off or something. Do you think it's important? I won't get in trouble for not mentioning it will I?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine." John tried to soothe her and patted her hand, grabbing a box of tissues from the coffee table. "Here, try and calm down a bit. Is there anyone around you could spend time with? Boyfriend? Your mum?"

"My sister's on her way down on the train." Vicki sniffed. She seemed to almost physically pull herself together, and then looked up at Sherlock. "Is there anything else you need to ask me?"

"One thing. Can you remember whether you saw the mask again, anywhere?" Sherlock was still watching her, intently.

She shook her head. "No, I didn't see it again."

Sherlock nodded, as is this fit with whatever theory he was currently working on, and turned to leave.

John smiled and said, "Thank you, I'm sure you've been very helpful." He stood and followed Sherlock outside.

They headed back to the lift in silence, and John wordlessly offered Sherlock his hand when the doors opened.

* * *

Sherlock sat in their taxi home, brooding in silence. He had barely spoken since they had left the TV presenter's flat, barely acknowledged anything at all in fact. John was the first to break the silence.

"So, the mask is important, I understand that. What I don't understand is why I was taking notes. You've never forgotten anything you thought was _important_ before now. Do you want to read over them?" He raised an eyebrow at his silent companion and sat back in his seat, clearly waiting for an answer.

Sherlock blinked and glanced at him. "Of course not."

"Then why on earth did you ask me to make them?" John looked nonplussed, and slightly offended.

"They are for you, John." Sherlock huffed and sat back in his seat. "You seem intent on recording every detail of my cases. I thought perhaps you might like to have accurate notes from which to work."

"Oh. Um. Well, thank you then, I suppose."John relaxed into his seat and turned to look out of the window.

Sherlock frowned. Ever since they had left the weeping woman's house, he had been unable to concentrate properly on the task at hand. He had at first thought she was overreacting, perhaps putting on a pathetic front to distract them from the facts of the case. After all, she had barely known the man. Yet she seemed stricken by a sincere depth of grief despite the shallowness of their connection; they had worked together for less than a year, had not been particular friends nor socialised outside of work. Yes, she had been the one to discover the body, but surely the shock of that did not account for all of it.

He compared her distress to what he imagined his own response would be. It would be unfortunate, yes, were he to discover one of his colleagues in a recently deceased state. Even Anderson would merit a moment of silence. But he doubted that he would _grieve_ for any of them, even Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. And yet. When he thought of finding John's body – John whom he had known for less than six months and for whom he was as likely to 'show off' as anything else – he felt a curious heavy sensation in his mind. It was an almost physical weight upon his shoulders and chest, and momentarily he found it hard to breathe. He glanced sideways at John who was watching distractedly out of the taxi window. Sherlock couldn't account for it, but somehow this man had become _important_ to him.

* * *

**A/N - short one yes but I have been having trouble getting this bit out. Going to try and not be distracted by the shiny and get my next bit out pronto as well.  
**

**For fans of Benedict Cumberbatch (and let's face it who isn't!) BBC Radio 7 will be re-airing the first series of Cabin Pressure starting today! It is available on listen again as well if you missed it.  
**


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